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I had doubled back to Salina, Utah the night before so as to be within quick striking distance of Mom's Cafe for breakfast, which I had read about in Road Food.
For most of my breakfast, I had the front room of the cafe to myself, complete with a view of its lovely bar.
The breakfast itself was nothing exceptional, much as the portions were generous. This extended to a large tumbler of water and my own pot of coffee (I love establishments that meet my need for excessive beverage before I even ask), along with every condiment I could possibly need. Among the latter was a bottle of honey butter, a natural if perhaps artery-clogging marriage of spreads. These to accompany the item for which Mom's is perhaps best known, their scone. Mom's is certainly like no other such bread of which I've partaken, something between a traditional scone and a croissant, with a consistency more of the latter. And with a bit of honey butter, definitely worth the drive back fr…

Still a strange thing, I find, waking up in one city - say, Chicago - and proceed bleary-eyed to the airport, there to warily board a pressurized tube and be propelled to 35,000 feet in the sky, only to be dropped in another part of the country, another part of the world. All the more strange if that pressurized tube touches down in Las Vegas.
But there I landed. And very comfortably ensconced in my black Chevy Impala with all the mod cons. - satellite radio, rearview camera, blind spot warning lights, etc. - I proceeded north from McCarran Airport up Las Vegas Boulevard, essentially experiencing the history of the city in reverse.
It says something about where my Las Vegas interest lies, my temporal bias exists, that my first stop - having an hour to kill before checking into my hotel - took me to the Neon Museum. I may well walk right into my death some day, gaping at a neon sign, walking into the middle of some busy street. At least at the Neon Boneyard there was no chance …